I straighten and clench my hands into fists, pulling them into my chest. It was nothing. He barely touched me. It could have been so much worse. And I froze. I didn’t even defend myself. I was a bystander to my own groping. How? How did I just stand there and take it?

Only until I didn’t. I focus on that: my threat, not the delay. But what if he’d done more?

I cover my mouth to stifle a sob, and the tacky feeling of my lipstick has me yanking my hand away. Crimson smears run along my palm. The tears I’ve been fighting spill over, and anxiety tightens across my skin. No, no, no, I can’t fall apart. I have to clean up after the Twins. There’s still the back half of the show . . .

I fumble for some toilet paper, wiping away the rest of the wrecked lipstick before blotting at the tears tracking down my cheeks. Great. Just perfect. It’s a small mercy when I check the mirror and my eye makeup is still intact. God bless waterproof mascara.

Here. This happened here, at Meryton. My Meryton. It’s profane.

I conjure the final look on his face, try to savor the fear in his eyes, but all I can come up with is the smug smile.

What if he comes looking for me?

The thought cuts off my breathing in a whimper. A new bolt of adrenaline shoots through me. No, there’s no way . . . I try to rationalize. Jane and Ming are just a shout away and there’s a club full of people upstairs.

I grip the doorknob, turning it slowly. The button of the lock clicks out against my palm. I brave a step out and am greeted by a tiaraed bride-to-be who moves forward in relief. She lurches past, barely letting me step aside before she shuts the door behind her.

I massage my temples. Two years. Two years and no one’s been grabby before . . .

“Bennet?”

My stomach falls. Darcy. I completely forgot about William goddamn Darcy.

I remember the look he had earlier, spotting the guy about to feel me up. Brilliant. He probably caught the whole thing. Shame floods my cheeks, and I grit my teeth. Tonight just keeps getting better.

I leash the ugly feelings and look to where I heard his voice. He stands on the far side of the room, near the coat check. I toss up a hand. “Congratulations, Darcy. You’re now the second-to-last person I could possibly want to see right now.”

“He’s gone,” he says tightly. “I told Michael. He got the bouncer and sent the guy packing.”

“You—what?” I search his face, confident I’ll see judgment, some self-righteous attitude. All I find is open concern.

“I hope I didn’t overstep,” he continues, moving toward me. “I should have asked you first. It just seemed—”